Beauty is pain.
It draws them in like flies.
They have caught their legs
in my flypaper hair.
And rip them off, one by one.
They fall like eyelashes into my palm.
They love, they love.
I cannot.

I determine to die loved.
Even if it is only
by myself.

I am of a strange alchemy.
Iron and tarnished silver,
with porcelain hands.
The rest feels like glass.
Fragile.
Vulnerable.
As though the smallest tremor
could send me falling
to shatter.

The night was moist
the sea-winds blew salt
to the trembling lips
which formed half words
and quiet whispers.
The air tasted of memory
and long lost souls.
"What keeps you alive?"
the mad girl asked the sea.
"Or are you dead and still moving?
My father killed a snake.
and it's body moved like waves,
though he held its head in his hand.
It twitched. It twitched," she muttered.
Her laugh broke across the water,
the gulls shuddered, clouds gathering,
and the waves resounded to the hidden stars.
She screamed to the wind as it snagged her hair,
it screamed back
over the breakers.
She laughed
and laughed
and laughed
again.

With moonlight between the earth and her feet
she wanders, shining soul,
the dark of the night
no match for her eyes.

The moon wonders down
at the bright creature,
melds her beams to stairs,
ascend, ascend,
Oh, brightest star.
Ascend to night's embrace.

Nostalgia: It sounds like a disease
And it has infected me.
Worming its way through veins and valves.
I caught it
from robbing the graves of memories.
Trying to gather
the silver linings from long dead moments
dusty laughs
that crumbled in my fingers,
moulding smiles that left spots on my hands
that burned.
out, out **** spot*
I lay down in the fresh earth,
cold, how cold it is.